


A Fine Mess

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Drinking, Drunken Confessions, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, M/M, Morning After, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24307645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which there is an uncomfortable morning after, and two idiots trapped in the middle of it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 127
Kudos: 625





	A Fine Mess

**Author's Note:**

> I challenged myself this week to write some things under 1000 words, because I'd been having trouble with short things for a while now. I was originally going to collect them all together. But they're all turning out to be very different, with different themes, ratings and warnings, so I decided to post them separately.
> 
> How could I pass up the opportunity to write them a morning after, and some drunken idiocy.

The world goes from a comforting swell of warm unconsciousness to painful and uncomfortable clarity with alarming speed.

Crowley's laying on something hard, something that feels suspiciously like a wine bottle. He's wearing an open shirt and both socks, and for some reason that's the extent of his wardrobe. There's a heavy weight sprawled against his back, that smells like books, old-fashioned cologne, and the faint, high-atmosphere tang of angel.

What the fuck?

For a hazy stretch of time the previous evening is a complete blank, before it slowly becomes a jumbled collection of images - of Aziraphale laughing, and then of himself pouring wine, then a pile of books falling, more wine, his fingers drifting through Aziraphale's hair - it's a deeply unhelpful drunken montage.

Crowley feels like a demon who should have sobered himself up last night, rather than doing it the hard way. He should get up, or at least confirm if it's actually Aziraphale behind him. Not that he has to check, he knows what the angel smells like, knows what he tastes like on the air, even excessively drunk, and layered in Crowley's own burnt forests, hard spices and reptile smell. 

He manages to choke a noise out, from where he's half-crushed into the sofa's creased cushions, miserable and complaining. He definitely enjoys the being drunk part more than this.

"I concur," Aziraphale mumbles thickly, into the hard curve of his shoulder, breath hot and damp. It's something of a shock. The angel's voice makes this all suddenly feel very real, in a way that the headache hadn't.

Memories are coming in, reluctantly, shamefully, as if they know they won't be welcome. They'd come back from the Ritz, they'd gotten very drunk, they'd made ridiculous eyes at each other. Crowley - Crowley may have said some things.

There had been kissing, very drunken, uncoordinated, terribly wet kissing.

"We drank far too much yesterday," Aziraphale says, as if he can feel Crowley's internal panic, and wants to head it off before it does something stupid. Crowley doesn't know if that's an apology or an excuse to pretend that none of this ever happened. Both options are miserable and awful. He considers pretending Aziraphale hadn't spoken. He considers pretending to be dead.

But that never works for long.

"I forgot how to sober up," Crowley says numbly. He can feel the possibility of humiliation hovering somewhere in the distance. "Haven't done that in a while."

Aziraphale's muffled groan sounds like agreement. "What do you remember?" he asks cautiously.

Satan's balls, what does Crowley remember?

"Did I call your buttocks Mount Olympus?" He finds himself asking, because that's - that's definitely a memory.

"You did," Aziraphale agrees.

"Fuck, I'm sorry, angel."

"I remember finding it very entertaining at the time," Aziraphale allows, rather generously, Crowley thinks. "And oddly flattering."

It doesn't count, drunk people know nothing, their decision making is bad, and their opinions can't be trusted.

"We didn't -" Crowley starts, and then finds he can't finish.

"I suppose that depends on your definition." Aziraphale, of course, knows exactly what he's asking.

They hadn't, Crowley's fairly sure. Though there had been a determined period of groping and tugging each other's clothes off, and a lot of awful, uncoordinated, far too desperate kissing. There's a strong possibility that Aziraphale is equally as naked behind him, and Crowley's not sure how to deal with that right now.

"The end of the night's a bit...unclear."

Aziraphale sighs.

"You attempted to compose a poem for me," he says, with slow and obvious reluctance. Crowley feels the rush of air across the back of his neck that suggests the angel has shifted upwards slightly. "I was quite overcome, and I may have reached something of a sexual peak prematurely."

Crowley has never attempted to write poetry in his life. It was probably awful.

"And then I fell off the sofa attempting to - to perform oral sex on you, and by the time you'd stopped laughing, and I'd gotten back up again, you'd fallen asleep."

Of course. Of course they couldn't manage this without it being a complete disaster.

"I didn't, by any chance, spill anything in the way of messy feelings while three sheets to the wind?" 

"Ah, I rather think we were a whole bedding department to the wind," Aziraphale says. Which Crowley decides is fair. He can't really dispute that. 

"So I didn't?"

Aziraphale's quiet for a moment.

"If you'd like me to forget everything that you said, then I will," he says. Though there's a quiet, badly hidden, flavour of hurt to the words.

Crowley makes a complicated noise in his throat. Because he suspects it's not a confession he's going to push himself into making again, at least not for a long while.

"Said now, isn't it," he decides. He makes it sound grudging and annoyed, but he thinks Aziraphale knows him better than that.

There's a strangely tense period of silence.

"Since this is effectively a 'morning after,' I believe you traditionally owe me breakfast," Aziraphale says at last. It sounds gentle and teasing.

Crowley gives a brief, surprised grunt.

"Technically I think you owe me breakfast." There's a strangely fragile sort of hope twisting somewhere in his chest. "Though that sort of suggests we're going to see each other again."

Aziraphale's large, warm hand carefully settles on Crowley's naked waist, it feels like a question - tentative and uncertain, but a question nonetheless.

"I would like that very much," he says, and it's not just an answer, it's a confession, and an apology.

Crowley wraps his own long fingers around the angel's, pulls slowly, until Aziraphale's arm is looped snugly around his waist. It's new and surprisingly intimate, and Crowley finds himself quite unable to say anything else. 

He feels Aziraphale sigh against his shoulder, feels the careful press of a mouth to the skin. The slow shift that leaves him tucked firmly into Crowley's back, as if he never wants to leave.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] A Fine Mess](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24471022) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




End file.
